


3. Love

by howelleheir



Series: DS9 100 Theme Challenge [5]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 21:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17030526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howelleheir/pseuds/howelleheir
Summary: An accidental confession.





	3. Love

From where he was reclining across the foot of the bed, draped in a gauzy robe that made the humid air feel almost pleasant, Weyoun couldn't make out much of the darkened room — just a figure drifting from one side to the other, tiny bursts of warm light flickering to life in his wake. His ears filled in what his eyes couldn't discern: the  _ click _ of some sort of lighter striking, the quiet rush of flame as it lit each of the dozen candles spread across shelves and tables, the rustling of fabric and the absence of clanking armor, which told him that Dukat had also shed his uniform in favor of more comfortable clothes. A quiet, languid music began to drift from the speaker in the wall.

Finally, the candles all lit, Dukat stepped back into Weyoun's field of vision, kneeling at the foot of the bed. He had around his neck a long string of small, bright wooden beads — some sort of Bajoran religious artifact that he often wore around his neck or wrapped around a wrist and worried with his fingers in private. The shirt he wore was plain and oversized with a deeply-split neckline which exposed the ridges across his collarbones and the teardrop-shaped protrusion in the center of his chest. 

Weyoun reached out, his hand brushing against the beads with a soft rattle before sweeping over the exposed scales. Seeing Dukat out of uniform always stirred a peculiar reaction in him, a compulsive recurring fantasy, a vague  _ what if...?  _ that never quite developed into a complete thought, but carried with it a hint of danger — he had the feeling that if he ever finished that question, he'd be courting heresy and treason. 

He pushed himself up to sitting and wrapped the string of beads around his fingers with a half-smile. There was something about Dukat's proclivity for Bajoran mysticism that was endearing. He managed to portray it to his fellow Cardassians as an academic interest in primitive superstition, but Weyoun got the distinct sense that, at least on some level, he actually  _ believed, _ and Weyoun could respect religious belief, even if it was the wrong sort. Bajor's Prophets were at least verifiably existent, which was more than could be said for most peoples’ gods.

“What are you smirking about?” Dukat asked, tipping Weyoun's face into the light with two fingers pressed beneath his chin.

“All this,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “The candlelight, the music, the attire — it's quite the display, but you  _ know _ I'm incapable of appreciating it.”

_ “I’m  _ not.”

Weyoun laughed. Of course, of  _ course _ all this effort Dukat had made was for his own sake, and Weyoun was just a part of the ambiance. The man was nothing if not consistent.

“Well,” Weyoun started, his voice dripping with feigned innocence as he climbed to his feet, “I suppose if we're focusing on  _ you _ tonight…”

Dukat met him halfway, sweeping him into a slow kiss at the bedside, which he seemed reluctant to break even as Weyoun guided him onto his back on the mattress. For a moment, he stood still above him, surveying the slightly quickened rise and fall of his chest and his expression — eyes shut, a lazy smile pulling at the corners of his mouth — and his hair, spread out in a loose spiral over the sheets, and the way his shirt had ridden up to expose a stretch of smooth, delicately-scaled skin and the thick, protruding ridge that divided it neatly down the middle. Vulnerable, but at ease.

He waited for Dukat to open his eyes, curious and impatient, before he let his robe fall off of his shoulders, and then to the floor as he climbed up onto the bed, his knees spread wide on either side of Dukat's hips.

He took Dukat's hand in both of his and kissed at his fingertips and the flesh of his palm before pressing it to his chest, letting him feel how feverish his skin had become and how his heart was fluttering behind his breastbone. 

Dukat pushed himself upright, pressing their torsos together and capturing the small of Weyoun's back, pulling him close in a possessive, demanding grip.

“You're beautiful,” he murmured against his lips between urgent kisses. The breathless adoration in his voice sent a pang through Weyoun's core, and then a nagging guilt. He quickly dismissed the feeling — after all, he was made to control men like Dukat, and this was as good a means as any. Why  _ shouldn't _ he enjoy a thrill at fulfilling his purpose?

Decisively, he reached beneath himself to unfasten Dukat's fly and release his already-everted, straining cock. He rolled his hips forward, rubbing himself against its length with a shuddering gasp, his fingers digging into the thick scales that hooded the back of Dukat's neck.

“Those little noises…” Dukat purred, taking Weyoun by the jaw and chuckling softly through a deep kiss. “If you're this worked up already, I can't imagine what you'll be like when I'm fucking you.”

Weyoun threaded his fingers through Dukat's hair and pulled, returning his roughness in kind. “I know how you could find out.”

The moment that Dukat slid into him always came as a shock — the sudden fullness, the pleasant ache and the thread of sharp pain that ran through it, the intimacy of being bound to another being by the very flesh. His breath escaped all at once in a low cry, his hands gathering up fistfuls of Dukat's shirt in their search for something solid to cling to.

He squeezed his thighs tight around Dukat's waist, matching the steady grinding of his hips, so deep that it might've been agonizing if it weren't for the friction, opening him up and sending shocks of need along every nerve, so good he felt it in his chest and under his skin and in every part of him that pressed against Dukat's body. 

Senseless from desperation, his control began to slip, and he could only watch from the outside as some suppressed part of him took command, uttering a low, disjointed chant of,  _ More, please, yes, fuck me,  _ and slipping a hand between their bodies to feel himself being spread open, and devouring Dukat's mouth. All his thoughts were drowned out by a frantic, aching need as he moved against the body beneath him, felt rough hands holding him close and sharp teeth scraping over his throat. He could feel Dukat’s approaching climax in the way his thighs tightened, a little tremor running through them, and in his ragged breaths, and a few deep, rasping groans. He threw his arms around Dukat’s neck, using his shoulders for leverage as he met each steadily-quickening thrust.

“Yes, yes, please, come inside me,” he begged. And then, when he felt every muscle in Dukat’s body clench, drawing him into a crushing, convulsive embrace and filling him with a surge of heat, “I love you, I love you, I—”

His delirious confession was cut short by a trembling cry as his body contracted in response, a visceral sympathetic ecstasy that crashed through him, sustained for long seconds as his fingers tangled in Dukat’s hair and his face pressed into his shoulder. As quickly as it had come on, it was slow to end, tapering off like a retreating tide, still washing over him in incrementally gentler waves until the tension drained from his limbs and his eyes could focus again.

Dukat was looking at him strangely.

With a shock of horror, he realized what he had said.

He was quick to pull away, separating them with a suppressed whimper and snatching his robe from the floor, eager to cover himself as if that might somehow ease his embarrassment. He had made mistakes before, certainly, but this —  _ this _ was beyond the pale. Even as a calculated lie, it bordered on criminal negligence, but as it was, as an unexpected, absolute, and undeniable  _ truth… _

“Weyoun.”

Dukat’s voice cut through the heavy air and stopped him where he stood. Reluctantly, he turned to face the man with a clenched jaw. Dukat beckoned him to the bedside, his eyes full of something like fascination. Even now, Weyoun couldn’t help but obey.

“You meant that,” he said, running his knuckles lightly along Weyoun’s chest where his robe hung open, “didn’t you?”

He swallowed, and barely above a whisper — “Yes.”

Getting to his feet, Dukat took Weyoun’s face in his hands, a smile that carried a sadistic edge teasing at his lips. “I think,” he said, “that’s the first time you’ve  _ ever _ been honest with me. It’s refreshing.”

“Dukat,” Weyoun sighed, exasperated. His gloating was barely tolerable when it was directed at a mutual enemy, but being the subject of it was unbearable.

As he turned again to leave, Dukat caught him by the wrist and hauled him back into his reach, a hand dancing over his spine while the other gripped his jaw, his expression suddenly serious. He leaned in close, their mouths a hair’s breadth apart, and just before he kissed him, slow and deep and insistent, he said, “I love you, too.”


End file.
